


005

by tepidspongebath



Series: Numbered Porn [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Star AU, is that even a thing?, oh sweet puppies what have I gone and done now, porn industry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2018-05-14 00:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5723086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidspongebath/pseuds/tepidspongebath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=125478849#t125478849">this prompt on the kink meme</a>: <i>Sherlock is a porn actor who does cheesy porno movies. John is the cameraman.</i></p><p>  <i>Whenever Sherlock is in session, John is always aroused while filming him. Sherlock notices this and does everything he can to arouse John even more if possible, wiggling his arse in John's direction, giving little winks, etc. </i></p><p>  <i>John becomes even more hot and bothered when only him and Sherlock are left on the set and Sherlock continues his 'performance'. John then says "Fuck it" and fucks Sherlock right then and there. </i></p><p>  <i>Sherlock, despite his history, has the best lay ever.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this anonymously in 2013, forgot about it completely, and am trying to finish now that I need to learn to write again. Please forgive me, I don't actually know anything about anything here.

"So what do we have for tomorrow?"  
  
"A threesome, M/F/F, oral, double penetration, sex toys, with a side of dirty talk and lots of cum over faces and tits. Girl-on-girl action too. That stuff sells well."  
  
John Watson whistled through his teeth. "Sounds exhausting."  
  
"You've shot more than that." Sarah Sawyer smiled at her cameraman. It wasn't the norm for a woman to be the director of a rather successful porn film studio - she certainly hadn't counted on making a career of it, John knew for a fact that she'd been to medical school, just like him - but she had recognized early on that sex sells, and she figured that she could do as good a job, or better, by being behind the camera instead of in front of it, and she'd be able to take care of the girls in the bargain.  
  
"Yeah, but it never ceases to amaze me. And the plot?"  
  
"Such as it is," Sarah laughed. "Well, a plumber comes in to check the pipes in a flat shared by two hot girls..."  
  
"...and he ends up snaking the pipes," finished John. Yes, he knew about that trope. "Okay. And we're shooting this, how?"  
  
"It's in the Lizzie and Carol series, so like a home video, with a handheld camera so you can get right up close to the action. I want wet and filthy close-ups of penetration, John. And you'll be on voice-over as the guy friend who's helping them with their blog, exclaiming how hot they are every now and then."  
  
"Wouldn't I want to join in?" asked John, teasingly.  
  
Sarah gave him a knowing look. "You might. We're using Sherlock Holmes for the plumber, you know."

* * *

It shouldn't have bothered him that Sarah knew about his little crush. He wasn't exactly discreet - Hell, he _couldn't_ be discreet, what with his job involving filming Sherlock Holmes in almost every filthy pornographic scenario imaginable. Sarah, at least, was good about it, refraining from pointing out the obvious tent in John's trousers as long as he kept the camera steady. As far as she was concerned, little inconveniences like that came with the territory of shooting porn for a living. She had in fact confided to him once, during a Christmas party liberally doused with alcohol, that she didn't blame him one bit as Sherlock was sex on long, gorgeous legs, and that she actually had to lock herself in her office sometimes after shooting his scenes, so that she could spend some quality time with a dildo or her fingers (John had actively prevented Sarah from getting any more drinks thereafter, and had ridden with her in the taxi back to her flat to make sure she made it home). Still, her having pointed it out yesterday made him uncomfortably self-conscious, and he fussed over his appearance before heading to the set, even if it wouldn't have mattered if he'd gone to work in a tea cozy.  
  
Today's location was 221B Baker Street, an actual flat which the landlady let them rent for their films while it was still tenant-less. Mrs. Hudson had been an exotic dancer in her day, and, though she never looked in while they were working ("Not at my time of life, dears."), she occasionally brought up trays of tea and biscuits for the girls between takes. Sarah raised her eyebrows at John when he came upstairs with his equipment.  
  
"A bit keen, are we?" she said.  
  
"I have no idea what you're talking about," said John crisply, taking the camera from his bag.  
  
"It's just that I could smell your cologne from across the road, that's all."  
  
"Oh, for God's sake, Sarah, it's not that bad." He sniffed. "Is it?"  
  
She laughed. "I'm just having you on, you silly. It's fine. Really. You're so cute when you're flustered." John was saved from having to reply by the flat door opening behind him. Sarah's attention immediately diverted to the new arrivals. "Hello, girls! Lovely as always!" And she launched herself on them in a flurry of brisk, friendly efficiency.  
  
"Hi, Irene, Molly," said John, smiling at the two of them over Sarah's shoulder. He'd worked with them before, and they often worked together, either as lesbian lovers or as two parts of gloriously dirty threesomes (or more-somes). The last film they'd done was an office fantasy where the strict boss - Irene - seduced her shy new secretary - Molly - and took her hard on her desk in her glass-walled office.   
  
"All right, John?" smiled Irene, her grey eyes taking in his smart jacket and shoes. She was a sharp one, and with her personality it was hard to cast her in anything but a domineering position (though in one of her more memorable films, she'd turned out to be badly in need of discipline herself). "So, Sarah, tell us how it's going to work."  
  
"Well, just like it said in the script - you've read it, right?"  
  
Molly nodded. She was a cute little thing, given to floral prints and sensible shoes, and if John had met her anywhere else, he wouldn't for a second have believed that she worked in porn. "Two flatmates, one plumber, lots and lots of sex," she said. She was also the sort of girl who was given to religiously reading scripts and manuals beforehand. "And a random male friend behind the camera who doesn't get involved."  
  
"That's it in a nutshell," agreed Sarah. "You know how we play it, ladies: Molly, you express interest first, but Irene's the one who makes it happen, okay? And she does this by--"  
  
"Shoving Molly onto the kitchen table, pulling her panties down, and eating her out while the plumber is under the sink. When he looks up, I ask him if he'd like a taste." Irene laughed. "I know the drill."

John phased out while Sarah went through the finer points of the plot, such as it was, with her actresses, using the time to adjust the settings on his camera. They were a small outfit, after all, albeit a prolific one, and Sarah didn't often call in other people to work lighting and sounds. This film was going to be the latest installment in one of their more successful series that revolved around two horny flatmates, Lizzie (Irene) and Carol (Molly), and their voyeuristic male friend of debatable sexuality who stayed behind the camera. So far the girls had had sex with each other, Carol's Boyfriend, Lizzie's College Professor, a Policeman under hastily explained circumstances, and a Female Personal Trainer who'd come to the flat to teach them yoga. Sarah had told John that she wanted them to do an airline pilot _and_ an air hostess eventually, but she was still trying to figure out how they could shoot the film on an actual plane.  
  
While Sarah briefed the women and made sure they knew where the caches of lube and condoms and sex toys were placed, John noticed that her eyes were constantly going to her wristwatch, and he couldn't help checking the time every few seconds as well: Sherlock Holmes was running late.  
  
"Bloody prima donna," he said, sympathetically, as Sarah finished talking to Molly and Irene and started staring at the door as if she could will her actor to appear behind it if she tried hard enough.  
  
"Bloody gorgeous prima donna, you mean," said Molly, with a giggle.  
  
Irene gave her an even look. "Oh, honestly, Molly. You'd think you'd never worked with the man before."  
  
"I'm allowed to enjoy it, aren't I?"  
  
The other actress rolled her eyes. "Fine, love. Sarah," she said, turning to the director, "we can start without him, can't we?"  
  
So saying, she shrugged off her coat. Irene often came to the set dressed for her roles, once famously going commando under an ankle-length coat. Today was no exception. Under her coat, she was wearing short denim shorts and a white top so sheer that her nipples showed through the material. For good measure, she undid the top two buttons of her blouse, and looked at Sarah for approval.  
  
"Good girl, Irene," said Sarah approvingly. "Let's have your hair in a French braid, please, I want to have a clear view of your face, especially when it's got Sherlock's cock in it."  
  
"I'll do it a bit messy, okay?" murmured Irene, obediently turning to face the sitting room mirror, hands already twining in her dark hair.  
  
"Molly sweetheart, don't change a thing," instructed Sarah, tucking a strand of hair behind Molly's ear. "Let's say that you just came home from your shift at the hospital. Just put on a skirt instead of those slacks, easy access, you know."  
  
Molly ducked into the kitchen to change, which John found charmingly ironic, seeing as they were all going to see her stripped to the skin later on. Sarah turned to him then. "I don't need to tell you what to do, John. You're brilliant."  
  
"Actually, you do tell me what to do. A lot," John pointed out.  
  
"And you follow brilliantly." Sarah beamed at him. "Just ad lib into your mike when I give you a nudge."  
  
They were about to start, Irene and Molly sitting at the kitchen table, ready to tell their friend Bill all about how their kitchen sink had clogged up and that they'd called a plumber to fix it, when the door to the flat flew open with a bang.  
  
"None of the cabs would take me," announced Sherlock Holmes by way of greeting and explanation.


	2. Chapter 2

Sarah bustled over to Sherlock, tutting loudly when she saw what he was wearing. True, the man was carrying what seemed to be a case of actual, well-used plumbing tools, but the rest of him was looking unbearably posh, from his dark curls to his silk shirt to the toes of his well-made leather shoes. Unbearably posh, and, thought John, risking a brief, professional nod at the man, devastatingly, toe-curlingly attractive.

"Well, look who's finally here," called Irene from the kitchen.

"And it's lovely to see you too, Irene," said Sherlock as Sarah fussed over him. "And you, Molly."

"If you'd taken any longer," Irene said, crossing her long legs and leveling a pointed look at him, "we'd have had to use John."  
Sherlock's eyes - impossible eyes, John could never decide what color they were - went to the cameraman then, and the corner of his mouth quirked upwards in a half smile. "That wouldn't have been too bad."

"Yes, yes, that's enough, you two. Play nice, children," Sarah intervened, taking the case of tools from him. "Sherlock, get out of those ridiculous clothes, please, we're doing the plumber one today, _Posh Bastard Bondage_ isn't until next week."

"I meant to change in the cab," explained Sherlock, shrugging off his Belstaff coat and untying his blue scarf. "I just came from another job. Couldn't have bloody well changed costume on the Tube."

“That would have been a sight,” said Sarah, somewhat wistfully, all but yanking the jacket from his shoulders.

“Yes,but I wouldn’t have been paid for it.” And with that, he began to take off the rest of his clothes.

John tried not to look. He really did. Honestly. But somewhere along the way between making the decision not to look and acting upon it, Sherlock Holmes removed his shirt and something in John’s brain fizzled and died, and all he could do was watch.

He was being silly, and he knew it. This wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, it wasn’t as if Sherlock was going out of his way to make it seductive (unlike, say, that one film that started with a striptease for a bachelor party and ended in a well-orchestrated orgy, just to name one of the things that kept John up at night). To make matters worse, he was the only one staring as Sherlock, bare arse in the air, stepped out of an expensive-looking pair of clingy black boxers. And to compound the dratted business even further, Sherlock bloody Holmes - now pulling on a pair of Marks & Spenser Y-fronts - seemed to have eyes at the back of his head.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, half-twisting to look at John with his new pants halfway up his thighs. “Do we need to do a screen test?”

“We don’t have _time_ ,” Sarah wailed, frantically waving her clipboard. “Mrs. Hudson has lodgers coming to look at the flat at _7_ , we need to clean up _properly_ this time, _do_ hurry!”

To his credit, Sherlock did put on speed, donning a convincing set of workman’s coveralls (with nothing but his pants on underneath, because this was porn after all) and a pair of heavy boots. You had to hand it to the man: despite the fact that nobody could possibly be paying attention since the clothes always came off within the first 5 minutes, he always supplied his own costumes with painstaking attention to detail.

The same could be said for his acting. It would be no exaggeration to say that Sherlock could switch personalities with about as much effort as it took him to change clothes. John was no expert, but he was positive that there were actors out there - actual actors, _real_ actors who did plays and television programmes and films where sex scenes either happened off camera or in tasteful shots of faces and shoulders and backs and, sometimes, feet - actors who would give their left arm to be able to do what he did. Hell, even a professional spy would have been envious of that skill set. Like now, for instance: by dint of slicking back his hair, dropping his shoulders and adopting a sly, sideways sort of smirk, he’d become a completely different person from the man who’d walked through the door a scant moment ago, even though he looked _exactly the same_.

It was almost enough to make the absurd scenario believable. From where he was, behind the camera with Sarah giving instructions over his shoulder, it was easy to remember that this was _work,_ and he had to zoom in, zoom out, focus where Sarah told him to, and keep the camera at a titillating angle. But as he followed Sherlock-as-a-plumber’s leer up and down Molly and Irene’s bodies while they made their introductions (a little whining about the sink, a little giggling, a little unnecessary touching), he wondered what it would be like to see this as a consumer instead of part of the production, to lose himself properly in this wank fantasy in private, with his hand curled around his prick. Though, of course, that sort of viewing, however indulgent, would never be as close as this, where he could see everything, hear everything, and - if he lost his mind entirely - he could reach out and touch...

At that point, Sarah jabbed him in the side with the corner of her clipboard and brought him back to his senses.

“Oi,” she hissed. “You zoned out on me there. Pay attention.”

Attention. Right. By now, Sherlock was making a show of examining the kitchen sink, bending at the waist at an improbable angle so that his arse was facing the camera. Right. That was a good visual. He could work with that.

Only Sarah gave him another prod in the ribs because what he should have been paying attention to was Molly beckoning him over. He shot Sarah an apologetic look and moved to the corner of the living room where the actresses were standing.

“I don’t blame you for getting distracted,” said Molly, taking John’s attention lapse in stride. She gave Sherlock (lying on his back on the floor, knees up and apart while making a lot of breathy, grunting noises, ostensibly tinkering with the guts of the sink) a not-quite-surreptitious look. “He’s pretty fit, isn’t he?”

“Mmm, yes,” said Irene, twining an arm around Molly’s waist. “You want him to play, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Molly bit her lip, and shot another look at Sherlock (John didn’t know what would require a plumber to thrust his pelvis up like that, but Sherlock was doing it). “I mean, he came here to do a job, do you think he would...?”

“Leave it to me.”

Irene took Molly by the hand, and John followed them to the kitchen where, as per instructions, after giving her a quick kiss and pressing a finger to her lips for silence, Irene shoved Molly onto the table, pushed up her skirt and proceeded to eat her out.

John didn’t need any prompting this time. This, if he could say so himself, was what he was good at. He started by taking in the entire scene: Irene had quite expertly positioned herself between _both_ Molly and Sherlock’s knees (privately John was of the opinion that there was no way anyone could have remained oblivious to that, but he was in the wrong business to be looking for logic), and Molly was biting her knuckles, with her other hand spread on the vinyl tablecloth for support (not very sexy decor, but easy to dispose of). Then at a signal from Sarah, Irene slid her hands up Molly’s thighs, her red nails vivid against the other woman’s skin as she pushed her skirt up.

That was going to look good on camera. As would Molly’s expression, with her lips parted and her eyes closed in apparent ecstasy when Irene reached up to squeeze her breast through her blouse. John edged into what space was left between table and counter to get a good closeup before panning down to see what Irene was doing. 

Which was teasing Molly with little licks and touches, pushing her legs further apart to give the camera a better view. Molly, as was usual in the industry, was shaved quite bare between her legs, and her labia fairly glistened from the other woman’s ministrations. This went on for a while longer until Irene stopped with the light touches and went in for the kill. 


	3. Chapter 3

Irene gave Molly one final, lingering lick, grinning wickedly with her red, red lips ( _John marveled at how the color stayed on, was that lipstick or something else entirely?_ ) before going for her clit, sucking and lapping with wild enthusiasm. Molly, already flushed and panting, was finally unable to bite back a groan when Irene pushed a finger deep into her cunt, and she went on groaning, quite wantonly, until a loud metallic clatter came from the direction of the sink.

John swiveled the camera to get a view of Sherlock propping himself up on his elbows. Damp and slightly grimy from trying to “fix” the sink (or rather, from Sarah’s dab hand with a makeup brush and plant mister), he should not have looked so attractive. Especially since he was wearing an expression halfway between bafflement and that of a man seeing his wildest dreams come true, but there you were. It ought to have been illegal, if only because John could feel the heat rising in his cheeks as Sherlock got to his feet, looking from the women to John, then back again. He told himself it was imagination that those lovely eyes stayed on him a few seconds longer than necessary, or that if he was not, in fact, deluding himself, it was a subtle form of pandering to the eventual audience.

“What the hell is going on here?” demanded Sherlock, pointedly _not_ tearing his eyes away from the scene in front of him.

“Oh, it’s quite simple,” said Irene, half-turning while she casually went on fucking Molly with her fingers. “My friend here fancies you, but she’s a little shy.” She paused long enough for Molly to nod and give a timid laugh. “So I was helping her warm up for you. Would you like a taste?”

Sherlock sputtered and stammered, but never got around to actually protesting, while Irene stood in one liquid movement and closed the distance between them.

“I - I don’t think....” he said, backing away ever so slightly as she invaded his personal space. Irene laid a finger on his lips to silence him - the very finger she’d been using on Molly.

“Hush now,” she purred. “We’re only playing a game.”

With that, she pulled him into a kiss.

Or at least that was what it would look like in the film. They did three takes of that scene, until Sarah was satisfied with the one where Irene grabbed Sherlock by the sides of his head to launch what looked very much like an oral attack, and let them carry on from there.

And, oh, did they carry on. There was a lot of tongue and quite a bit of teeth, as well as a fair amount of moaning, some of which was coming from Molly on the table. John shot a few seconds of her watching them with an expression of avid lust on her face and her fingers on her clit, before going back to the show Irene and Sherlock were putting on. Their hands worked furiously, with Sherlock slipping his large hands under Irene's blouse (you could see his fingers digging into her skin beneath the thin cloth, clear as day) and Irene unzipping his coveralls to reveal bare, sweaty skin. From the way they were grabbing and pawing at each other, it seemed like they couldn't get enough of each other's skin...until you noticed that their bodies were angled for the camera's benefit with a good few inches between them. Still, it was pretty hot. 

 _Very hot_ , amended John as Irene helped Sherlock shrug off the top part of his outfit. Very hot indeed. So hot, in fact, that John had to bite back an embarrassing sound when he saw Irene press her lips to his chest.

He didn't quite manage it. The sound was not as loud as it might have been - that was a small mercy - but it still escaped his pressed-together lips, and it was still embarrassing in the extreme. There was a distressed tea kettle quality to it that John knew he would never live down. He could  _feel_ Sarah's glare between his shoulder blades, could practically sense her lips forming the word 'Cut!', and, anticipating her order, he was about to lower the camera, but Sherlock met his eyes through the lens. And he held his gaze even as Irene groped his fantastic arse with what John believed was completely warranted enthusiasm. 

"What about him?" Sherlock asked, nodding in the direction of the camera. There was a burning intensity in his eyes that nearly had John making another shameful noise. He was rather more successful at keeping this one in. 

"Him?" Irene spared John a glance, then went back to swirling her tongue over Sherlock's left nipple. "He doesn't mind."

"Won't he want to join in?" That almost sounded like an invitation. Almost. John's ears burned.

"Oh, he likes to watch," said Molly.

"We've done this with loads of our friends," said Irene, as if that was enough to explain the whole situation.

"Yeah, it's all fine," lied John, at Sarah's prompting. "Don't mind me."

"If you say so." Sherlock sounded doubtful for all of two seconds, but Irene seized his wrist and steered him towards Molly before he could give the matter much more thought.

"Let's give her a turn, shall we?" she said, patting Molly's knee and giving the camera a decidedly naughty wink.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Molly’s turn meant Sherlock going to his knees between her legs, assuming much the same position as Irene earlier. He paused long enough for her to meet his suddenly doubtful expression with a grin of surprising wickedness, and if that hadn’t spurred him into action, Irene threading her fingers though his curls and guiding his mouth to Molly’s crotch would have done the trick.

He started slowly, with testing little touches and experimental licks as if he was exploring the territory (Sarah had John practically leaning over his shoulder to get that shot). Eventually, he did something with his tongue that had Molly bucking her hips and shouting, he did it again. And again, the third time around holding Molly’s thighs in place with his large hands so that all she could do was squirm and moan as he took her apart with methodical precision.

Irene stepped in, leaning over Sherlock to kiss the other woman. It made for a scorching visual, especially when Sherlock reached behind him to squeeze Irene’s bum. And just before the scene became too static, Irene unpeeled herself from the other two and sashayed over to the other side of the table. Molly reached for her, and she obliged, first by taking her hand and bringing it to her lips, then guiding her down until she was lying on the hard wooden surface, spread out like a feast between Irene and Sherlock.

On his side, Sherlock didn’t let the change in position faze him. He hoisted one of Molly’s legs over his shoulder so he could get even closer while Molly bent her other knee and brought her foot up onto the table to give the camera a better view. Sherlock’s tongue lapped at her folds, fluttered against her clit and pushed inside her with almost indecorous efficiency. John wondered, not for the first time, how good he actually was, how much of Molly gasping and arching her back was from what he was doing to her, and how much was artifice.

Though, of course, it could just as easily have been Irene’s good work. She had pulled Molly’s blouse off, and was bent over her, pressing kisses onto her throat the the skin delectably exposed between the thin, lacy cups of her bra. The lingerie was doing precious little to hide aereolae and peaked nipples, though somehow the glimpses afforded through the flimsy material made the scene that much more erotic. 

Not that it detracted from anything when the bra came off, save for the degree of Molly’s nakedness - all she had on was the skirt rucked up to her waist. Irene stopped for a second to admire her handiwork (to give John time to pan down Molly’s body to the dark, curly head bobbing between her thighs) and went on to _worship_ Molly’s small, pert breasts, cupping them, kissing the soft skin, and rolling one nipple between finger and thumb while she licked the other in time with Sherlock’s ministrations.

At this point, Molly was far from passive. She bit and nuzzled at every part of Irene she could reach, mostly the fabric of her shirt (damned if John knew how she made mouthfuls of cloth look sexy, but that was Molly Hooper for you), alternately clinging to Irene and grabbing double handfuls of Sherlock’s hair. It wasn’t long before her knuckles were going white and her movements lost some of their studied artistry, the leg draped over Sherlock’s shoulder pulling him closer as if she couldn’t bear for him to move away.

“Oh,” she gasped, all but yanking on his curls. “Oh, fuck, yes! I’m - I’m going to -”

The rest of that sentence was lost in a high, wordless moan that delivered on the industry’s promise of loud, showy orgasms.


	5. Chapter 5

Sarah made Irene move so that John could focus on Molly’s frankly beautiful O-face. Then she made John move again to get a shot of Sherlock pushing his fingers into Molly as she rode out the aftershocks.

John didn’t have the option of looking away, not unless he quit his job then and there, handing the camera to Sarah before leaving 221B to have a good, hard wank in the safety of his own little flat. He swallowed and tried very hard not to think about wanking, tried to keep his mind blank and _not_ occupied with long, slender fingers probing, stroking, stretching inner walls and finding the exact spots that would make a body melt into a tangled mess of nerve bundles. That was relatively easy compared to not imagining what those fingers would feel like in his mouth, against his tongue, because Molly - apparently energized by that orgasm instead of giving way to joyful lassitude - pushed herself up and into Sherlock’s arms, first kissing him soundly on the mouth, then seizing his hand to suck her juices off his fingers.

And it was utterly impossible for John’s brain to have room for anything else when Sherlock locked eyes with him through the camera again, half-naked with a naked-but-for-a-strip-of-cloth Molly draped over him, giving his fingers a passable approximation of a blow job while a barely-clothed Irene looked on.

“Sure you don’t want a taste?” he asked, using his free hand to guide Molly’s fingers to his groin, and looking exactly like a debauched sex god from one of the dirtier pantheons in the process.

 _Yes, I would, actually_ , was on the very tip of John’s tongue. _I would, and I think you know that, you terrible man, God yes, I’d like a taste very fucking much, thanks, just let me get my mouth on you._

In real life, John gave an undignified gurgle, and he may or may not have reached out to Sarah for support. All he knew was that she gently but firmly guided his hand back to the camera, gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, and directed him to respond.

“Uh, no thanks,” he choked out. “I’ll leave the hard work to you.”

Sherlock gave a bark of laughter at that. “Hard work? This is the best day I’ve ever had on the job!”

“Trust me, those two’ll give you one hell of a workout.”

“God, I hope so.” Sherlock groaned; Molly was palming him deftly through his coveralls, and John could see the outline of his erection through the rough material. “ _Fuck_.” His voice dropped another octave and hit a note that sent a jolt of arousal running up and down John’s spine. “You two - you’ve got to let me fuck you. I need to fuck you.”

“That’s the idea,” said Irene. She slid onto the table behind Molly, kissed the back of her neck, then leaned over her shoulder to kiss Sherlock too, holding on to his upper arm for balance and rubbing her thumb in slow arcs over his well-formed bicep. (John filled his head with the fact that Mrs. Hudson had incredibly sturdy furniture, and did not think about those arms at all. Or how they might feel under his own hands.) “You’ll try to keep up, won’t you?”

Sherlock’s assent was a low growl as he pushed his cock into Molly’s hand. The half-undone coveralls were riding perilously low, exposing the waistband of his pants and resting just above the plump swell of his arse. If John had been allowed to take a slightly different shot, he would have seen the long lines of Sherlock’s back and those deliciously tempting dimples of Venus ( _lateral lumbar indentations_ , he thought firmly, _don’t get carried away by the poetry_ ). Sarah, however, was playing to the average watcher of porn and not John Watson’s fantasies, and wanted to keep all three actors in frame.

“Ooh, feel that big hard thing!” squealed Molly. “I want that _in_ me!”

Sarah gave her a thumbs up. As cheesy porn dialogue went, you couldn’t get much cheesier than that unless you broke out that foamy cheese stuff in a spray can and started spewing it over the set and the people in it (best not to mention that to Sarah, she might get ideas). It should have been laughable. It should never have worked in real life. But Molly was one of those actresses who, quiet and mousy as they might be in normal life, were utterly convincing once they stepped into a role, and her earnest enthusiasm was catching. And, God help him, John couldn’t say he didn’t share the sentiment.

“And you already had that gorgeous mouth all to yourself. Greedy girl.” Irene smirked and drew the pad of her thumb over those cupid’s bow lips. “I want that next.” She jerked her head in the direction of the living room, an order as much as anything. “Come along now.”


	6. Chapter 6

In between the shift from kitchen to living room, there were a few minutes for a bit of rest and drinks of water, during which Molly pulled on her coat and Sherlock drifted off to one side without touching his costume. He just stood by the window, bottle of water in one hand and mobile in the other, apparently unconcerned that he was half-hard or that his coveralls might slip off his arse while he was texting.

Well, thought John, that was the attitude one could expect of someone in the middle of shooting a porn film. Look at Irene: she didn’t give a shit that her blouse had fallen open. And John ought to have been able to give no shits as well, this was what he did for a living, only one more day at the office, so to speak, people went unclothed around him all the time, it was the entire point of his - aha - body of work, but here he was, barely able to function because of something he’d seen at least a dozen times before, even accounting for the fact that he’d always found Sherlock approximately as hot as the surface of the sun. He was starting to wonder what had gotten into him today, or if Mrs. Hudson might have drugged the water, when Sarah seized him by the arm and steered him to the corner furthest from Sherlock.

“John,” she hissed, though he’d never know how she managed to hiss a name without sibilants, “what the hell is going on?”

“I - I -”

“I need you on this. Mrs. Hudson might just let the flat at last, and I can’t imagine anyone on earth being thrilled with the idea of us turning up on their doorstep, asking if we could use their sofa because you flubbed the shot of a blow job. So if you can’t get it together today, that’s fine, I know we all have off days. Just let me know now, while there’s still time for me to call Kate.”

John scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t realized that his internal struggle hadn’t been all that internal after all, and hearing Sarah talk like that was a bit like getting drenched with a well-aimed bucket of ice water. He was a professional, damn it, and his boss had always been able to rely on him, and he wasn’t going to let her down just because an unbearably gorgeous man he was mildly in love with was going to have theatrical sex in front of him. All in a day’s work. Nose to the grindstone. Another day, another bare arse. Right.

“Sorry,” he said. “I think I know what’s gotten into me today, and it’s the soul of a horny teenager.”

Sarah snorted. “Well, as long as you can repress it until the end of filming...”

“I’ll manage it. I promise.” John gave her a weak smile. “You can count on me, boss.”

“Oh lord, don’t you start.” She waggled a finger at him, but she was already a little further away from being well and truly cross. “Any more of that and I’ll think you really are possessed.”

“Yes, boss.”

“ _John_. Take five and a cold water bottle, will you?"

He did. He felt better for it too, and for the wake up call Sarah had given him, and he was reasonably confident that he had things under control when Molly threw off her coat and filming resumed.

__

It started with Molly walking into frame, smoothing her crumpled skirt, undoing the zip and pushing it down to her hips so that she was naked for true. As she threw herself onto the sofa, Irene and Sherlock stumbled in from the kitchen, Irene with her blouse fully undone and shoved down to her shoulders, and Sherlock - well, _Sherlock_.

__

He had left his phone and half-consumed water bottle on the kitchen counter, and he’d amped up his animal magnetism to a solid eleven. Possibly gusting to a twelve.

__

Of course his large hands were roaming all over Irene’s lithe body, and of course his mouth was smearing down her neck as she shook off her blouse. There was really no other way it could have been, given the genre they were working in (Sarah didn’t much go for soft core stuff) and the actor that Sherlock was (he was never less than fully dedicated to a role, no matter how improbable or ludicrous), but John wondered if he had to be quite so...so keen. It was a minor miracle that his camera hadn’t caught fire from all the sparks.

__

No, that was the horny teenager talking. He had to do his job properly, or all of today’s work would be for naught because they’d never be able to find another location with the same awful wallpaper, and Sarah would probably kill him because it was cheaper than giving him the sack. Right.

__

John grit his teeth. He reminded himself that this was hardly the most difficult situation he’d ever been in (he’d been through medical school, for God’s sake, he’d been in the army), and obediently moved closer when Sarah said that he should, so that the camera and the eventual audience could get a good eyeful of Irene and Molly exposing Sherlock’s cock.

__


	7. Chapter 7

Oh God. That cock.

It wasn’t true that John lay awake at night, unable to sleep because of that cock. No, the insomnia was mostly down to PTSD and the crushing uncertainty of the future (his therapist had told him that blogging would help, but he couldn’t do that, not really, not with what he did for a living, his _sister_ read his blog for God’s sake, never mind that she’d probably seen more explicit material in her lifetime than he had). But it would also be accurate to say that he _had_ spent a fair amount of time considering Sherlock’s cock, not all of which was spent behind the camera.

If forced to describe it - and he had been, once, at letter opener-point by a Sarah who’d been editing video descriptions for the studio’s website - John would have to say that it wasn’t an industry standard cock, not as huge as some, but there was something about the curve of it when erect and the shape and proportion of the head that was, well, _elegant_ , if penises could be said to be elegant. However, as nice as it was, its main attraction was that it was an elegant penis attached to the rest of Sherlock Holmes. When he’d finished saying this, Sarah had blinked twice, said that she’d look for him the next time she needed several reams of lyrical prose on the subject of male anatomy, and shooed him out of her office.

Currently, there was nothing very lyrical about John going down on his knees so the camera could be scant inches away as Irene and Molly helped Sherlock step out of the coveralls, boots and Y-fronts, and, once he was no longer in danger of falling over because of his legs being trapped by a stretchy band of cloth (that had happened before, a gloriously happy accident), put their mouths on him.

Oh. God.

This was going to kill John. It really was. He was going to die of Having to Watch Two Women Give Sherlock Holmes a Blow Job From a Distance of Approximately None At All, probably a first in medical history, and then Sarah would bring him back so she could kill him again herself.

His rational brain recognized this as rank exaggeration, of course. Nobody was going to have to call 999 just yet, but with Sarah instructing him to pan up Sherlock’s body and back down again ( _slowly please, stay on his face, then back to his dick, yes, good_ ), it was difficult to believe anything his rational brain had to say.

Still, he survived watching Irene and Molly take turns with Sherlock’s cock, kneeling shoulder to shoulder and moving its head from one set of perfectly painted lips to the other as if they were sharing the world’s most obscene ice lolly. And he didn’t die when Irene got up and shoved Sherlock onto the sofa, settling herself on top of him to get in the obligatory 69 shot, which went on for quite a long time because John had to get gratuitous footage of both ends - Sherlock’s dark curls between Irene’s pale thighs, his chin working as he ate her out with the same enthusiasm he’d had for Molly, and Irene smiling like the cat that had gotten the cream, a forest full of catnip, and a stylish pair of new boots before dragging her tongue up Sherlock’s cock from root to tip, while looking directly into the camera _the whole damn time_.

He did, however, have to remind himself to breathe as Irene sat back, giving Molly space to straddle Sherlock’s hips and squirm enticingly.

 


	8. Chapter 8

She teased him first, rocking her hips against Sherlock’s body, keeping his cock trapped between them and giving him - and the eventual audience - just enough stimulation to be completely and utterly maddening. Sherlock certainly acted like it was: he gasped, moaned, thrust his own hips up to meet Molly’s, and, when all else failed, he coaxed Irene up off his face long enough to stutter, “Please - God - _fuck_.”

Irene laughed and patted his ribs in a vaguely soothing gesture. “Darling, he did say ‘please’.”

 _No_ , thought John, crouching next to the sofa and trying to avoid everyone else’s limbs, _he said ‘fuck’._ And he’d said it with his voice pitched low and rough, popping the ‘ck’ at the back of his throat so that the voiceless velar plosive twanged John’s overwrought nerves like a garden rake drawn across harp strings.

Then he said it again, with more of an exclamation point and less of a pop, when Molly sank onto his cock.

John, of course, had to shoot this from as close as possible without actually resting the camera on Sherlock’s taut stomach. That was normal - terrible, given the state John was in, but perfectly normal given his job description. What was _not_ normal was Sherlock’s warm hand landing on John’s shoulder.

Technically, it was more of a brush than a grab. The full weight of his palm and outspread fingers only really rested on John’s arm for the barest second. Still, it was more than enough time for John’s thoughts to fizz uncomfortably: it had to be an accident, Sherlock had to have been reaching for Molly - wait, no, he was a professional, he wasn’t _actually_ in the throes of sexual passion, he knew damn well what he was doing. And what he was doing - what he had been doing since he’d walked through the door of 221B, come to think of it - was fucking with John.

Not literally, more’s the pity, but if that wasn’t what he was up to, John would take his camera apart and eat it. His own fault, perhaps for being so easy to tease, but this was grossly unfair. He’d put up with it from Sarah because she was a friend, and he’d share the occasional pained glance with Molly because that was what you did when co-workers stressed you out. But he was not going to stand being made the butt - aha - of this particularly cruel joke. No, he was going to put on his professional face and keep it there. And he’d do it successfully this time, because few things are better motivators than spite.

It was better after that. There was a point, after all, when seeing naked people do things to each other ceased to be titillating, and John thought he'd finally reached it, thanks to a good dose of righteous indignation. He filmed Molly riding Sherlock with what he thought was cool detachment, and he managed to keep it up as the two women kissed and fondled each other when Irene settled herself back onto Sherlock’s face. And he did not lose his mind when Irene got up to rummage in a drawer and Molly slid off of Sherlock’s cock, positioning herself with her hands braced on the armrest and her arse in the air, so that he could fuck her from behind. Considering that this involved shots of Sherlock’s own magnificent arse ( _no, John was still being strictly objective, there was just no denying that he had spectacular buttocks, John was fine_ ), from the back and in profile, as he thrust in and out of Molly, John was rather proud of how he was doing.

He had barely finished giving himself a mental pat on the back when Irene entered the scene again. She was holding a very large, very pink dildo, quite realistically shaped, and John froze as she drew the tip of it down Sherlock’s spine, then over the ample curve of his arse, then she doubled back, parted his cheeks and _pushed_...

Sherlock, apparently, was all for it, going by the way he groaned and moved his hips back to meet the tip of the thing. Sarah, however, was not.

“ _Cut_!” She all but grabbed the toy from Irene. “I know he takes it beautifully, but that just won’t work for our target audience. Not for this series, anyway. Let’s save that for next time - or at least for Molly. John, are you okay?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to write a couple hundred words of this at 221B Con: some in the early morning (because I kept waking up at the ungodly hour of 5:30AM, unprompted, good lord, if only I could manage to do that on weekdays), and a bit in the Writer's Suite, which was very nice - thank you muchly for the chocolate.
> 
> (And I'd love it if you said hi on Tumblr - I'm [jamesphillimoresumbrella](https://jamesphillimoresumbrella.tumblr.com) there.)


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